


Blood On Your Hands

by Arwriter



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Family, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Protective Dutch, Torture, Violence, hurt Arthur, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:45:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19377913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arwriter/pseuds/Arwriter
Summary: Dutch had brought him to this place, blind and oblivious, and now he couldn't hear Arthur's silenced screams. Nobody in the house could. Or maybe they did hear him, and simply chose to ignore the sounds.





	Blood On Your Hands

Arthur woke to blinding pain shooting down his arm, yanked back to the world by white-hot agony. 

He tried to scream, the sound echoing in his own ears, catching in his throat. His mouth was pried open, something soft stuffed in between his teeth and tied tight around his head, effectively silencing him. 

He tried to move, blinking frantically to clear his head, panic rising as everything slowly came into focus.

Arthur was pressed against the end of an extravagant bed, hands held high above his head and tied together on the wooden canopy. The bed was taller than he was, and he was forced to stretch to keep his arms from supporting his full weight.  

He yanked at his bound wrists, breaking off with another muffled scream when he realized where the pain was coming from. 

Lodged deep in his skin, just below his wrist, was an arrow, the wood stained with oozing red blood dripping down to his elbow. 

“Mr. Morgan.” The familiarity of the cheerful voice chased away the lingering confusion as everything came back to him, dread settling in his roiling gut. 

He was going to  _ kill  _ Dutch. He’d told him,  _ constantly,  _ that the house party Trelawney had managed to get them into hadn’t felt right. 

The guests were rich enough to miss a few picked pockets, and the house decor was nicer than anything Arthur had ever owned, but the host, a man who introduced himself as Harry Wilson, had put him on edge since the beginning. 

But Dutch, always confident and optimistic, had managed to sway him, filling his head with promises and reassurances as they set off. 

Trelawney rarely brought them anything other than good information, and if everything went as planned they’d be back home with their pockets full before the sun came up. 

_ If  _ things went as planned. Arthur should have learned by now that for him, things rarely ever did. 

The uncertainty had come flooding back the moment Mr. Wilson had introduced himself, the man sly and unsettling, the touch of his hand on Arthur’s back making him suppress a shudder. 

His home, a dark wood manor tucked deep in the forest, was packed by well-dressed crowds, the swarm of voices making Arthur’s chest tight. The walls were decorated with animal heads, perfect pelts laid across the floor serving as rugs. The man was a hunter, and clearly proud of it. 

And there was something deeply wrong in his gaze. 

Arthur had every intention of saying so to Dutch as soon as they were alone, but he’d never had the chance, the two of them whisked away into the crowd, presented with alcohol, food, and questions. 

Everything had come at him too fast, too overwhelming. Maybe the uneasiness just came from the unfamiliar atmosphere, of being thrown into a place he didn’t belong. The life he lived had made groups of people like this nearly unbearable. 

But Dutch fit right in, spinning his web of lies and flashing cocky grins each time Arthur met his gaze. He was either oblivious to the younger man’s distress, or simply didn’t care. 

And Arthur, admittedly, had no real cause for concern, no reason to throw away the opportunity. None of the guests had a reason to distrust them, a successful factory owner who had taken Arthur under his wing after his parents had passed, and Mr. Wilson had busied himself with other visitors. 

So Arthur had done exactly what was expected of him. He’d stayed quiet and polite, smiling, nodding, and slipping his hands into pockets when Dutch drew their attention away.

Thankfully, they had left him alone, writing Arthur off as young and unimportant, instead focusing on Dutch and the success of his family business. 

With Harry Wilson nowhere in sight, Arthur had slipped away from the crowd, absently reaching into drawers and cabinets when he was sure no one was looking. 

There wasn’t much, but in a drawer in the far corner, Arthur’s fingers found something cold and metallic, barely sparing the golden necklace a glance before dropping it in his pocket. 

If nothing else, after tonight they would be able to afford to feed the camp for a few days at least. He supposed that was worth a night of constantly looking over his shoulder. 

He turned back to the party, scanning the crowd for Dutch, wondering if it was too early to ask to go back home. 

“Mr. Morgan?” 

He’d nearly jumped at the sound of Mr. Wilson’s voice, barely managing to compose himself as he turned to the host, hoping his smile didn’t look forced. 

“Not enjoying the party?” 

“I am,” he assured, speaking too quickly. “Just...not a fan of crowds, I guess.” 

“No?” There it was again, that unsettling tone that set off every alarm in Arthur mind. “Neither am I, if I’m being honest. Unfortunately, parties like this are...expected.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

Harry laughed, Arthur tensing as the older man took his shoulder. “You’re an interesting young man, Mr. Morgan. May I call you Arthur?” 

He didn’t want this man calling him  _ anything,  _ despite his kind words and easy smiles. But he nodded, the weight in his pockets reminding him of why he was here, warning him against arguing.  

“Do you hunt, Arthur?”

“Not really,” he said, doubting the characters Dutch had created tonight needed to worry much about survival. “I’ve been a few times.” 

“You look like you’d enjoy it,” Harry commented, still standing too close. “And someone like you shouldn’t be spending all your time cooped up in a factory.” 

Arthur’s smile was becoming harder and harder to keep, forcing himself not to flinch when Harry’s hand lowered to his arm. He glanced over his shoulder to scan the crowd again, still seeing no sign of Dutch, but fairly sure he could hear his voice drifting from somewhere in the crowd. 

“I should head back to--” 

“Your friend will be just fine without you,” Harry said, and before Arthur could protest he was being gently lead down the hallway. “There’s something I want to show you.” 

“I shouldn’t--” 

“Could make you some money.” Harry turned to him with a knowing smile. “If you’re in need of some extra cash.” 

Every reasonable part of Arthur’s mind was screaming at him to decline, to turn and run, to get as far away from this house as he could. Had he been alone, he probably would have. 

But Dutch was here, working as hard as he was, expecting Arthur to do everything he could, to pull his weight and take every opportunity thrown his way. 

So he followed the man deeper into the house, away from the noise of the party, away from the eyes of the crowd. 

He couldn’t remember how he’d let Mr. Wilson get behind him. Maybe he’d been so focused on the hand around his arm, how cold the touch made him feel that he simply hadn’t noticed. 

But something had slammed into the back of his skull with a hollow thud, sudden and hard enough to send him crashing into darkness. 

And now here he was, tied and gagged, fiery agony shooting down his arm, Harry’s voice sending chills down his spine. All for the sake of money. 

“Glad to see you back with us,” he said, words distorted to Arthur’s ringing ears. “Hope I didn’t hit you too hard.” 

It took him a moment to focus, but when he finally met Harry’s eyes, the panic and fear hit him full force. 

The party’s host was standing just a few paces away at the other end of the bedroom, another arrow notched in the bow in his hands, the man already pulling the string back and taking aim. 

Directly at Arthur’s other arm. 

He tried to speak, any words lost to the gag jammed in his mouth. He wasn’t given any warning, no explanation, before Harry released the string and fired in one smooth motion. 

It moved so fast, Arthur didn’t even get a chance to watch it sail through the air. It lodged into his shoulder, sinking deep into his skin as he screamed. 

“Scream, if it helps,” Harry said, smiling as he examined the wood of another arrow, cocking his head. “No one will hear you, my boy.” 

Through his own labored breathing and racing heart, Arthur could just make out the distant, muffled chorus of familiar voices downstairs. 

He couldn’t have been gone for long if the party hadn’t even slowed. Dutch wouldn’t be looking for him. He probably wouldn’t think to look for hours. 

“Like I said, your friend is just fine without you. And I’m sure his pockets are even fuller than yours.” 

Arthur’s eyes widened, heart skipping a beat, watching the man’s knowing smile as he looked up from his bow. 

“I’m not as drunk as my guests, Mr. Morgan. I know a lie when I hear one, and a thief when I see one.” 

Arthur hadn’t noticed before, but his suit jacket- generously given to him by Trelawney- had been removed, as had any stolen valuables he’d hidden in his pockets. 

“Relax,” Harry said, casual, like Arthur couldn’t feel his own warm blood seep into the collar of his shirt. “Rob those rich bastards all you want. I only wish you’d left  _ me _ out of it.” 

He set the bow down, reaching over to pick up Arthur’s jacket, neatly folded on the dresser beside him. Harry reached inside the front pocket to retrieve the gold necklace Arthur had taken from the drawer, the chain neatly wrapped around his finger. 

“It’s rude to steal from your host,” Harry mused, setting the necklace aside. “This belonged to my wife, you know. Wore it every day before she passed. Have you ever been married, Arthur?” 

Arthur didn’t respond, all his energy focused solely on blocking out the pain in his arms, uselessly wishing Dutch would notice his absence and come looking. 

“I assume everything I’ve heard about you has been a lie.” 

He was holding the bow again, and Arthur couldn’t help but whimper as the man picked up another arrow. He pulled ruthlessly at unmoving bonds, crying out as it tugged at impaled skin. 

There was nothing he could do but watch, eyes glued to the tip of the arrow as the string was pulled back, Harry’s face impassive as he aimed, lower this time, and released.

The pain in his side was immediate, sharp and sudden. He felt the weapon slam into his ribcage, felt the arrowhead bury mercilessly into his skin, shirt now sticking to soaked skin, blood pooling down to his hip. 

It was impossible to stop himself from screaming, yelling furiously into his gag, unable to stop as he thrashed and writhed, fighting against the agony. 

The sudden blow had caused him to lose his balance, leaving him to hang by his torn arms. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, strangled cries only growing louder, frantically trying to find his footing, struggling to regain control over trembling legs. 

“Try and calm down, Mr. Morgan,” Harry said, almost like he was reprimanding a disobedient child. “It’s target practice. It’ll be easier if you hold  _ still.” _

The chatter from downstairs never quieted, the guests oblivious and carefree. No one could hear him. And if they did, it was doubtful people like this would even care. 

“So, I take it you don’t work in a factory.” 

Arthur tensed when he heard footsteps, whimpering again as he gradually balanced himself, sagging under the weight of the pain. 

He forced himself to pry his eyes open, squinting as the floor beneath him seemed to sway, watching Harry’s polished shoes move nearer and nearer. 

“That man you’re with-” there was a hand grabbing Arthur’s jaw, squeezing, lifting his head from his chest. “-older brother? Father?” He paused, forcing Arthur to look him in the eyes. “Lover?” 

Arthur’s face was wet with tears, screams fading in favor of silent sobs, the gag in his mouth soaked with blood and spit. Harry smiled, something almost akin to sympathy in his gaze, only tightening his hold on Arthur’s face as he shook his head. 

“No. If he loved you, he’d be here. Family never seems to give a shit, do they?” 

Arthur’s breath only hitched in his throat. Gagged or not, he wouldn’t have had the strength to defend Dutch, not when he had to fight for each panicked breath. 

Not when a dark, cynical part of his mind was furious, blaming Dutch for his pain, for ignoring his disappearance. 

There was a hand running through his hair, the other loosening the hold on his face to cup his cheek. It might have been comforting, if the action wasn’t laced with chilling cruelty. 

The hand in his hair pulled away, and before Arthur could even begin to find the strength to pull away, there was pressure against the arrow in his shoulder. 

Harry wrapped his fingers around the wood, twisting the weapon, watching as blood stained the torn cloth of the white shirt. He pushed the arrowhead in deeper, one hand still on Arthur’s jaw, still smiling. 

“I assume you’ve hunted more than you let on,” Harry said, raising his voice as Arthur screamed into his gag. “Tell me, do you get the same thrill I do? Watching a creature fight to stay alive?” 

This wasn’t  _ hunting.  _ Hunting at least gave the animal a chance. Hunting was for survival. This was torture to repair a damaged ego, and Arthur was helpless to stop it. 

Harry finally pulled away, walking back across the room, leaving Arthur cold and shivering. Without anything to support it, his head fell limply back to his chest. 

“Do you want to kill me, Arthur?” 

He didn’t have the energy for anger, or the motivation for vengeance. All he had was the desire for release, to be untied, to be back at camp with Dutch and Hosea tending to his injuries. 

But he could feel the blood seeping into his clothes, dripping to the floor, leaving him lightheaded and weak. 

Arthur couldn’t fight against his sob as Harry retrieved his bow and picked up another arrow, never dropping his triumphant grin. 

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” he said. “I needed the practice. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure your body gets back to your partner. Maybe next time he’ll think twice about crashing one of my parties.” 

Dutch would kill this man. At least Arthur could die knowing that much for certain. 

The arrow was pointed at his head, right in between his eyes, before being slowly lowered to his chest. Somehow, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to look away. He stared straight ahead at the readied weapon, holding his breath, waiting. 

_ “Arthur?”  _

His head shot up at the familiar voice filtering in from the hallway. Dutch sounded more curious than concerned, but it was more than Arthur could have hoped for, the voice forcing out a relieved sob, bloodied arms trembling from the strain. 

_ “Arthur?”  _ Dutch called again, still muffled but closer, and Harry began to lower his bow.  _ “You alright?”  _

Arthur did all he could to respond, ignoring the pain it brought, pulling at his wrists, yelling wordlessly into his gag. 

He hadn’t even seen Harry move, but the man was suddenly pressed up against him, something cold and sharp digging into his neck. The arrow pressed hard enough to draw blood, Arthur trying in vain to pull away as it slid down to his collarbone. 

“Stay silent and I’ll end this quickly for you,” Harry whispered, leaning in close. “Scream, and I’ll make you watch me kill that man.” 

He pushed himself away, making Arthur gasp at the brief pressure put on his wounded side. But he obeyed and fell silent, only able to hope Dutch would have the sense to see through the man’s lies. 

He couldn’t help but doubt it. 

Harry opened the door, not nearly enough for anybody to be able to see what was tied to the bed, slipping into the hall and shutting it behind him. 

“Everything alright sir?” 

“Everything’s fine,” he heard Dutch say. His voice was right outside, echoing in Arthur’s ears, just one last form of torture, rescue dangled right in his face, still out of his reach. “I’m just looking for my friend.”

“Mr. Morgan?” Harry asked, and the sly confidence of his voice made what was left of Arthur’s hope shatter. “You know...I believe I saw him talking to a young woman earlier. I’m sure he’s just fine.” 

There was a beat of silence before Dutch laughed, quiet and relieved, and Arthur thought he might throw up. He’d end up choking on it, but in the end, it would be better than hearing that psychopath gloat for another second. 

“Of course,” Dutch said, Arthur’s whimper nearly inaudible to his own ears as the other man’s voice began to fade away. “He’ll be able to find his own way home.” 

“Why don’t we head back--” 

Harry’s voice was cut off with a loud thud, any noises coming from the hallway immediately overpowered by the constant flood of commotion from the main room. 

The bedroom door flew open without warning, and Arthur tensed on instinct, fighting to hold back another agonized whine. He wanted to turn his head to the doorway, to match his torturer’s gaze as he approached, but he no longer had the strength. 

“What did you do to him?” But that was Dutch’s voice, nothing more than a shocked whisper, quickly morphing to fury. “What the  _ fuck  _ did you  _ do?”  _

It had been some time since he’d heard Dutch so angry. The man had raised his voice at Arthur more than once, always deserved, always put behind them with apologies and promises. 

But Dutch had never taken a tone like that with him, never the violent, bloodthirsty rage. And his punishments had never been physical. Dutch had never raised a hand to him.  

He’d seen Dutch lose himself to his anger countless times, but it still caught Arthur off guard to see, out of the corner of his eye, Harry slammed onto the ground hard enough to break every bone in his body. 

“Just let me explain, Mr--” he wasn’t given the chance to finish, Dutch slamming his fist into Harry’s face, watching the blood splatter from his broken nose. 

Arthur could see Harry struggling, kicking and clawing at the floor. The pile of arrows was still neatly spread out by the dresser, the man frantically trying to reach them, Dutch easily keeping him back. 

Arthur thought he saw a glint of metal, followed quickly by the unmistakable sound of a pistol cocking. Harry fell still, freezing on the ground with his hands by his head. 

“Mr--” 

“I’ll kill you,” Dutch snarled, and Arthur knew he meant it, gun pressed to the man’s temple. “You hear me? I’ll kill you, you pathetic little--”

He made a noise from behind his gag, desperate, loud enough to get Dutch’s attention. 

He wanted it. The part of him that had been raised like Dutch, a fiercely loyal killer, wanted nothing more than to see Harry’s lifeless corpse at his feet. 

But Dutch was going to kill him in his own bedroom, in the middle of his own party, setting off a gunshot during a rich man’s gathering, and expect to get them both home without consequence. 

And with the pain pulsing through his veins with each heartbeat, growing worse and worse every second, revenge had quickly become the least important part of the evening.

Dutch glanced at him, and something in his eyes cleared, softening. The anger didn’t quite go away, but he slipped the gun back in its holster, grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair, and slammed the back of his skull onto the floor. 

Arthur made another weak attempt at forming Dutch’s name through the soaked cloth and blood in his mouth, and the other man quickly scrambled to his feet. 

“I’m coming,” he promised. “I’m...Jesus, I’m here, Arthur. You’re ok.” 

Arthur raised his eyes to watch him cross the room, silently relieved when he saw only worry in Dutch’s gaze, no frustration or disappointment. 

He paused in front of the bed, hands hovering as he stilled, suddenly unsure of what he was supposed to do. Arthur made another noise behind the gag, quieter this time, less desperate. 

It was enough to shock Dutch into action, moving to the back of Arthur’s head, tugging relentlessly at the gag digging into his skin, Arthur groaning when it only seemed to make the pain worse.  

Dutch stopped his assault on the cloth, the gag unmoved, swearing under his breath as he moved away, Arthur breathing deeply around his panic. 

When he returned a moment later, he held one of Harry’s spare arrows in his hands, and Arthur couldn’t help but flinch. 

“You’re ok,” Dutch said again, impossibly soft. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you, son, I’ve got you.” 

The arrow disappeared from his view, Arthur holding his breath as the gag finally loosened, Dutch pulling it from his mouth and tossing it to the bloody floor. 

_ “Dutch…”  _

The other man said nothing, brow furrowing as he moved to Arthur’s wrist, doing his best to work around the arrow sunken into his arm. 

Arthur gasped when his hand was untied, the small release pulling at impaled skin, hand spasming as blood ran down his fingers. 

“Almost done,” Dutch promised, only able to offer a small smile as he moved to the other hand. “Hang in there.” 

It felt like hours, the pain steadily growing worse. Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from screaming, to distract himself from the tugging on his wrist. 

The rope finally came undone, the pain in his shoulder flaring, and he felt Dutch’s hand on his back, the other on his chest, gently guiding him back to the bed. 

“Don’t lay down,” Dutch ordered, leaving Arthur to sit in the middle of the bed. “I’ll do my best to get these out, just hold still.” 

Arthur nodded, closing his eyes and trying not to think about the wood in his skin, about Dutch’s hands moving to his bloody side. 

But he could feel the gentle tugging on the arrow, the squelching of blood as it slid through his skin, stubbornly fighting against the pull. 

It wasn’t until Dutch began shushing him, quiet and soothing, that Arthur realized he’d cried out, tensing against the slow torture. 

“Almost done.” 

Arthur forced his eyes open to see how much of a lie it was, wishing immediately that he hadn’t. 

The arrow had dug deeper than he’d realized, Dutch only halfway done with easing it out of bright red skin. As soon as he saw the stained wood moving through his skin, Arthur began to lose the fight against his nausea, convulsing with an awful gag. 

He cried out against the new wave of pain it caused, no longer able to hear Dutch’s panicked reassurances. He swallowed thickly and looked away, doing all he could to keep from puking all over the bed. 

He was losing his strength, feeling himself sinking backwards, wanting nothing more than to lay down and let painless sleep overtake him. 

But there was a hand twisted in his shirt collar, pulling him forward and keeping him upright. Dutch was talking again, and it took Arthur a moment to focus on the words. 

“Stay with me, son. Talk to me, I’m almost done, I swear.” 

He managed a nod, leaning forward when Dutch removed his hand, returning to his task, Arthur watching the ceiling to try and forget the wood sliding through shredded skin. 

“You…” He took a shaky breath, knowing coughing would just make things worse. “You really need to--to start listening to me, Dutch.” 

The pulling of the arrow stopped, only briefly, before quickly picking back up again. Dutch didn’t answer, his voice low and impassive. “What happened?” 

“Caught me stealing,” Arthur muttered. “He-- _ fuck!”  _ With one last tug, the arrow finally came free, soaking his already stained skin with more blood. “Cr-crazy  _ bastard.”  _

He thought he heard Dutch chuckle, though it was impossible to be sure. “Me or him?” 

Something soft was pressed against the wound, Arthur groaning as it pushed down. He tried to curl in on himself, only to be stopped by a steady hand on his chest. 

“I’ve got you,” Dutch said, eyes never leaving the injury. “Just don’t look at it.” 

Arthur couldn’t stop himself, ignoring the advice and tilting his head to glance at the bloody hole in his side, Dutch working to cover it up with his own suit jacket. It was enough to break his control, barely giving him time to turn away before he was overtaken by gags, throwing up what was left in his stomach onto the blankets and floor. 

He couldn’t keep himself from hunching over, the heaves dragging him downwards, pulling at the remaining arrows in his arm and shoulder. He cried out in between the retches, body wracked with a new wave of sobs, clutching the covers of the bed as he lost control. 

There were hands on him, warm and grounding, wrapped around his chest and back, keeping him from falling face-first into his own vomit. 

Dutch was rubbing the back of his neck, talking quietly, patiently waiting out the attack. There was no cruelty or judgment, and despite the agony, Arthur knew he was safe.

Assuming he didn’t keel over right then and there. 

But it passed eventually, Arthur allowed to breathe in shaky, desperate gasps, his whole body weak and trembling. 

Dutch’s hold tightened, guiding him back like the younger man was a weightless child, still muttering reassurances Arthur couldn't even begin to try and hear. 

“Keep breathing,” Dutch said, still preventing Arthur from leaning back. “Deep breaths, Arthur. I’ll go as fast as I can.” 

Arthur didn’t bother nodding, terrified any little movement would set off more vomiting. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it through another attack. 

Dutch moved back and the pressure on his side was tightened, the jacket carefully tied around Arthur’s waist. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best they could do for now. 

There was a hand on his shoulder and Arthur flinched, breathing deeply as Dutch held his arm still. “I’m so sorry.” 

He wasn’t given the chance to ask Dutch to clarify for which part. The arrow in his shoulder was pulled forward, and Arthur suddenly wished the gag was back in his mouth. He made an involuntary, strangled gasp, kicking out as the wood made its way through his skin. 

“Hold  _ still,”  _ Dutch snapped, never slowing. “I’ll straddle you if I goddamn have to, Arthur. Stop  _ moving.”  _

Arthur held his breath, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the wound in his side, but each tug of the arrow was still fire against his skin, the pain slow and taunting. 

He didn’t even realize when the arrow had left his skin, pulled from his panicked daze when he heard the tearing of cloth, Dutch furiously ripping apart the bed sheets, wrapping them tightly around Arthur’s bleeding shoulder. 

“You with me?” Dutch asked, suddenly crouched in front of him. His hand moved to cradle Arthur’s jaw, holding his face steady just like Harry had done. But it wasn’t a show of dominance or a vicious mocking of sympathy. Dutch’s concern was genuine, always had been. “Arthur?” 

“I’m good,” he said, voice rendered weak and raw. “You think you could at least  _ try  _ being gentle?” 

Dutch frowned, brow pinching together as his gaze dropped to Arthur’s other arm held limply at his side. They weren’t done yet. 

“There’s still-” 

“I know, Dutch.” Arthur took a breath, pointedly looking away from his spasming wrist. “Just get it over with.” 

Dutch hesitated, the suspense only making the grim situation worse. “Do you want me to--” 

“Dutch,  _ please.”  _ Beyond the pain was a constant, burning itch where wood sunk into skin. As much as he dreaded going through it again, he couldn’t have that thing in his arm another minute. 

And Dutch seemed to understand, reaching out to squeeze Arthur’s other hand before focusing on the last arrow. 

It hurt worse than his shoulder, the weapon having gone all the way through his wrist, the wood seeming to resist as it was pulled through sensitive skin. 

Arthur heard himself cry out, choking back another wail, swallowing against the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. His free hand was clutching Dutch’s blood-stained shirt, holding so tight he thought the material might rip. 

“There we go,” Dutch said at some point, voice distant. “All done, Arthur.” 

Arthur shook his head, knowing it was a lie. He could still  _ feel  _ it, the wood splitting open his skin, lodged deep in his wrist. It was still there, still moving torturously slow. 

“It’s gone,” Dutch said. Something was pressed against his skin, wrapping tightly around his wrist where the arrow was supposed to be. “It’s over. You’re ok.” 

Arthur blinked, hearing no deception, nothing but desperate honesty. Dutch wouldn’t lie. He’d never lied. 

The arrow was gone, just as promised, the weapons discarded from his view. His wrist was shaking and bloody, a dark red stain already seeping through the makeshift bandage, but most of the pain was already washed away by the relief. 

Arthur shuddered against his soaked clothes, eyes heavy, feeling himself begin to fall backwards. Dutch didn’t try to stop him, scooting back to allow the younger man to rest against his chest. 

“Thank you,” he muttered. There were fingers running through his hair and Arthur instinctively leaned into the touch, Dutch warm and inviting against his suddenly freezing body.  

“We can’t stay here,” he said, hand stilling. “For all we know, I just made things worse. I want to get you back to Hosea before you bleed out on me.” 

Arthur knew that tone, knew he wouldn’t die tonight. Dutch wouldn’t let him. 

He nodded, hissing when Dutch carefully guided him to the edge of the bed, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood and vomit on the other side.

Harry was right where Dutch had left him, face bloody and unmoving on the ground. Arthur shivered as he worked on steadying himself, wondering how many people had been subjected to the man’s sadistic treatment, left to die when no one had thought to come looking in time. 

Dutch cautiously pulled away, leaving Arthur to shakily grab the edge of the bed and try to find the strength to stand. He took a breath, listening to the man move around behind him. “How’d you know?” 

“How’d I know what?” Dutch asked, moving back around to the front of the room, blood-stained arrow in his hand. “That you weren’t upstairs... _ entertaining _ yourself?” 

Arthur shrugged, quickly regretting it when the movement pulled at his shoulder. His head was growing heavier each second, leaving him pained and drowsy. “Ain’t a bad excuse.” 

Dutch was watching him, confusion and amusement battling his concern. “You thought I was dumb enough to  _ believe  _ him?” 

“No,” Arthur shot back, wincing at how badly his throat ached. “I just...I didn’t think you would--” 

_ “Arthur.”  _ He was still holding the arrow, clutching the weapon in a white-knuckled grip. “I’ve known you for twenty years.” 

He said nothing else, silently dropping to his knees and plunging the arrow into Harry’s neck. 

He died quickly and almost silently, the man arching up with a single, strangled scream, his whole body shuddering before falling silently to the floor in a puddle of his own blood. His eyes never opened. 

“Jesus!” 

The outburst, short as it was, sent Arthur into a brief coughing fit, pulling at his far from healed injuries, probably loosening the hastily applied bandages. 

Dutch moved to stand beside him, rubbing Arthur’s back as they waited for it to pass. Something was draped across his shoulders, and it took him a moment to recognize his suit jacket, the only piece of clothing untouched by blood.  

“Come on.” Dutch, mindful of Arthur’s injured side, hoisted him to his feet, allowing the younger man to lean against him. “We’ll sneak out the back door.” 

Arthur nodded, struggling to stay standing, to see clearly through the waves of dizzying pain. Mounting a horse would be a nightmare, and he knew Dutch would downright refuse to let him ride on his own. 

“Shouldn’t have killed him,” Arthur muttered. 

“Why?” 

He had to stop himself from shrugging. “Someone will find out.” 

“No shit,” Dutch snapped, guiding him to the door. “You think someone who does this to you gets to _ live? _ You think if I have a choice, I'll let someone who hurts you walk away?” 

Arthur said nothing, Dutch’s words somehow making his legs even weaker, shaky, like they were filled with water. 

But Dutch was staring at him again, silently commanding Arthur to meet his gaze. As usual, he obeyed without question. 

“You have my back,” Dutch said. “You always have. And you’re a damn fool if you think I don’t have yours.” 

They both fell silent after that, nothing else needing to be said. 

Arthur nodded, letting Dutch practically drag him forward, moving slow and careful, leaving the necklace and the blood-stained house behind.  

**Author's Note:**

> I'm getting back into writing oneshot whumps since I'll be traveling in July. Uploads will be a little slower this month, but I'll do my best!


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